


A Marginal Acceptance

by PseudonymousBotched



Series: Margins [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23113471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PseudonymousBotched/pseuds/PseudonymousBotched
Summary: It's been a couple of years after ...everything, and Connor still has nightmares. Although by now he's learned to reach out to people when he needs comfort, and Markus is more than willing to come when called.
Relationships: Connor & Markus (Detroit: Become Human)
Series: Margins [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1661392
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33





	A Marginal Acceptance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vespurrs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vespurrs/gifts).



> I just couldn't leave "An Acceptable Margin of Error" the way it was, so here's a fix-it for my own fic. Things still aren't perfect, but they're a lot better than they were.
> 
> You can read Connor and Markus as just friendly or as shippy, I don't really care. I'm not your boss.
> 
> (I only know what a dracaena is because of Animal Crossing: New Leaf. Video games indeed do be educational.)

There aren't snowflakes when he opens his eyes. It's still nighttime, but the window that meets his gaze is clear, the panes untouched by frost. There is no vitriolic scent of gunpowder and thirium in the air. He recognizes where he is immediately, but it still takes a few seconds too long for his heart to stop pounding.

He knows this routine too well by now. There's no protocol for it, no process written into his program, but it has become habit for him anyway.

The first thing he saw while he was coming out of stasis is the window, so he'll count that. It's just an ordinary window, but through it he can just barely see through the night a side yard and the next house over.

The neighboring house – and by extension, the rest of the neighborhood – can count as separate from the window. Each house started the same, but soon each one was personalized by the androids living there. This particular neighbor painted his house's siding neon pink. Suddenly he's glad he doesn't have the best night vision, since the darkness spares him from getting that pink seared into his eyes again.

Next to the window is his living room wall. It is painted a pale yellow that he picked because it looked like the first sunrise he'd ever seen. Although right now it just looks gray in the dimness.

Trying to see in the dark is really kind of pointless, so with a wireless nudge he turns his living room lamp on. The lamp immediately provides a soft, warm hued light. Now he can actually see.

There's the small 3-shelved bookshelf in the left corner of the room, stuffed with books that Hank has lent him. The books are largely science fiction paperbacks, with faded covers and dogeared pages. He's found the Star Trek novelizations particularly interesting, and not all of the dogeared pages are from Hank's perusals. He has yet to invest in a proper bookmark.

In the right corner, a potted dracaena that's nearly as tall as he is. It might flower soon. He dismisses the table of soil analysis results that tries to slide into his HUD. That's not necessary right now.

Next, things he can feel.

His thirium pump regulator is humming uncomfortably quickly, pulsing to direct heightened voltage to synthetic fiber muscles. He would have called it his combat protocols engaging, once. But that's just a detached way of describing his fight or flight response. There's nothing to fight, and no need to flee, so it's just straining his batteries again.

The synthetic suede of the love seat he's sitting on is soft under his hands. He still feels weird about deliberately running his palm over the fabric, as if he's doing something incorrect by petting his furniture, but he is fairly certain humans do the same. And there isn't anyone else here to see, anyway.

The movement of his hand jostles the bracelet around his right wrist, and that reminds him of the bracelet's existence.

He'd been helping supervise a particularly difficult to manage class of YK500s, when he'd been promptly surrounded and his arm was taken into custody for the application of the friendship bracelet. The colorful threads wove together in a pattern he didn't understand, but the sentiment of each kid picking a thread to contribute was still evident.

He still doesn't have the heart to take it off, even though it's become slightly frayed and dirty.

His sensation of touch is much lower than the average household android, since he is a model at least partially designed for combat, so he has to search for a moment before finding something else he can feel. But his bare feet are on the carpet, so he can wiggle his toes and feel the resistance of the carpet. Only for a moment, though. Intentionally gathering static electricity on himself isn't the wisest idea.

Now things he can hear.

The air conditioning unit conveniently turns on at this moment. The cool air gushing through the vents is staving off the summer heat that wants to gather itself up inside the room. The moving air makes the window curtain rustle, lightly slapping against the wall.

That counts as two things he's heard, right?

Although his immediate neighborhood is quiet right now, there's a faint sound of traffic, the eternal pulse of the city. This is still within the city limits, after all.

Things to smell. He always skips this step, to the chagrin of his therapist. Even though he technically has a sense of smell, it's based off the same code that controls his sample analysis. No point in getting the same results twice.

Something he can taste.

Well, that one is easy. He keeps a dish of hard candy on the side table nearby, and he doesn't even have to get up to reach one. He deliberately doesn't look at what he grabbed, which keeps the flavor a surprise until the candy touches his tongue. Butterscotch this time.

He still struggles to describe tastes. It's easier to describe how they make him feel. Butterscotch is a warm flavor, somehow, even though there's no temperature spike from the candy. An emotional warmth. It's like sunrises, and Sumo rolling over for belly rubs, and the tan sweater that was the first item of clothing he chose for himself.

Markus likes the butterscotch candies, too.

Thinking of Markus calls back to the front of his processes why his stasis was interrupted in the first place. Before he realizes he made the decision, he's reaching out via short range call.

“ _You're still awake?”_ he asks as soon as Markus accepts the connection. It's still disconcerting to speak this way, mouth moving and producing no sound to his own audio processors, and yet knowing that the other android will hear him clearly.

“ _Yeah, I'm just working on a painting.”_

Immediately, he feels like he's made an error. He's interrupted Markus -

“ _Why are you awake, though?”_ Markus asks. _“Is it the dream again?”_

He shouldn't need to clear his throat, especially when speaking intangibly. But he has to anyway. _“Yeah. Yeah, it was.”_

“ _Do you want me to come over?”_

His hesitation is clearly answer enough for Markus.

“ _Alright, I'll be right there.”_ Outside the window, he can see lights being turned off, and a figure slips out of his neighbor's front door.

“ _But your painting...”_

“ _It's just a painting. It can wait.”_

The call is disconnected, and he feels the tension starting to build again. He pulls his legs up onto the love seat, since sitting properly and rigidly is beginning to feel incorrect. Folding himself into the side of the love seat feels much better, although he's not sure why.

After far too many seconds, Markus appears in the corner of his vision.

Connor hadn't even processed the sound of the door being opened. He should probably be concerned about that. Although Markus is one of only an extremely limited number of people who has a key.

Markus takes his usual spot, sitting on the floor at a 90 degree angle to the love seat. It's a good spot because Markus isn't towering over him, but is still available for making eye contact.

“How are you doing?” Markus asks. He's being careful about the volume of his speech, and Connor appreciates it. The quiet of the room feels like it shouldn't be disturbed.

He hums noncommittally.

Markus is apparently content to sit quietly after that.

But the milliseconds stretch out, and Connor struggles to put into words the feeling that is making his very chassis feel restrictive, as if he needs to somehow get out of his own body to be comfortable.

“I guess I just wanted to check on you,” he says. Although that doesn't express the enormity of the sensation – after that dream, he needed to prove to himself that Markus was safe and still existent in the world.

Markus props his elbow on the love seat arm, the better to put his chin on. The concern radiating from his eyes was surely at high enough levels to make a Geiger counter spontaneously combust. “One of those dreams, then?”

He hums again, and slides his gaze back to the dracaena. It might bloom faster if he puts it in more direct sunlight.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, I'm okay.” He doesn't have to look at Markus to know about the eyebrow being raised at him.

A glance back at those mismatched eyes is a mistake. Markus seems to have mastered exactly the expression to make him feel like dismantling his defenses.

“It was that night again. Except we weren't in the square, it was some random CyberLife store.”

It is Markus' turn to hum, a cue for Connor to continue.

He folds his arms against his thirium pump regulator. Sometimes tactile pressure keeps it from going so fast. “It was just you and me left. I was still a machine, and I couldn't stop...”

“It was the reconstruction software again, right?” Markus prompts.

“Yeah.”

“Was there something wrong with the reconstruction? Some detail that doesn't match up?”

That's why he likes Markus. Markus sees right into the heart of the problem, and unravels the Gordian knot with just one tug. When Connor's reconstruction software goes awry, it never captures an entirely accurate simulation of the world. Finding the incorrect details helps convince him that he's broken out of the simulation and is truly awake. He's never said as much in as many words to Markus, but he really isn't surprised that Markus has figured it out.

He's surprised that the words leave his mouth so easily. “I don't know how we ended up at the store, or where all the other androids went. It was like I woke up there with no memories of what just happened, but knowing what I was supposed to do next.”

Markus doesn't say anything yet. He knows when to let the silence settle.

Connor turns his attention to his wrist, sliding his forefinger and thumb across the friendship bracelet. “And the humans behind me – I didn't identify what kind of guns they were carrying. That identification should happen automatically when I look at any firearm.”

He looks up long enough to meet Markus' eyes. He was literally built to read quick expressions, so he sees the grimace that turns into a slight smile.

“Well, we're here now,” Markus says.

Markus gets up long enough to retrieve a book from the bookshelf. He settles back in (with his back to the love seat this time) and opens the book.

Already it's not quite as dark outside. The sky wants to be a lighter shade of gray. His living room is now filled with the soft sounds of their combined breathing, and every so often the paper fluttering of Markus turning a page. If Markus has noticed that Connor's slowly reached a foot out to stealthily put his toes on Markus' back, he hasn't shown it. He's surely well used to Connor quietly invading his space by now. And it's just comforting to feel that yes, Markus is physically nearby.

Connor's grown bored of the butterscotch, and is attempting to balance it between his front teeth. But since it's an irregular disc, it wobbles, and he nearly spits it out by accident. His movement of hand to face to potentially catch the escaping candy draws Markus' attention.

“Hey, do you have any of the butterscotch ones left?” Markus asks.

Connor twists to reach the dish behind him, and even a quick stir of the contents with a finger doesn't reveal another yellow cellophane wrapper. “No, I think I've gotten the last one. I'd have more if you didn't keep taking them all.”

“Those are the best ones, though.”

“Buy your own then.” He picks one of the candies at his fingertips, and flicks it towards Markus.

The candy bounces off the open book before Markus manages to catch it. He unwraps it and pops it in his mouth without checking the wrapper's label. Connor can't help but be a little perversely delighted when Markus immediately spits the candy back into his hand.

“Peppermint,” he says by way of explanation.

“What's wrong with peppermint?”

“Nothing, I just don't like it.”

“Want to trade then?”

“I've seen what you put in your mouth on a regular basis, and I don't have very much faith in your decontamination processes or whatever you said it was.”

It's familiar banter. Even though his stasis cycle was interrupted, and he'll be a bit sluggish without a full recharge for now, he'll be fine. The sky is becoming light in earnest. Morning is on the way.

**Author's Note:**

> Connor: why did you paint your house that neon pink  
> Markus: because it's the most hideous color I've ever seen and I love it  
> Hank, an intellectual: nice  
> Connor, struggling to compute: but that doesn't make any sense  
> Hank: accept the hideous into your life, Connor
> 
> (One more note. I've edited the flavor Markus hates to something more appropriate. Watermelon only occurred to me because I personally hate that flavor of candy. Let's leave it at that.)


End file.
